


tell me that you're sorry, too

by savannah926



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, based on from the dining table, like... a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11305062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savannah926/pseuds/savannah926
Summary: "Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me that you're sorry, too."But Louis never does.(Based on 'From the Dining Table'. I had to.)





	tell me that you're sorry, too

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiiii. This is the first work that I've ever been comfortable enough to share online, so any positive feedback/words of encouragement would be much appreciated (:

It’s a little past midnight when Harry’s sobs become so violent that he makes himself sick. He can feel the bile rising from his stomach, and before he really knows what he’s doing, he instinctively runs to the bathroom door before he wretches the contents of his stomach out. Not like there’s much to throw up anyway; he hasn’t eaten a full meal in three days. It’s mostly been trail mix, nuts, and a kiwi here and there, just enough to make it through the day without fainting, really.

Harry picks himself off of the bathroom floor and notices how his muscles tremble doing the simple task. He shakes his head in an attempt to rid his brain of this feeling, but it’s no use. It’s been like this for weeks, but he hasn’t been this alone with no packed schedule until now. And tonight, it all came crashing down. He weakly flushes the toilet and lets his head rest against the wall, as if it’s the only thing that could hold him upright. 

_I did this to myself,_ he thought. _I did this to myself and there’s nothing I can do to fix it. He’s gone._

And just like that, his face screws up and the sobs come back.

 

* * *

He doesn’t remember leaving the bathroom or getting on the mattress, but nevertheless he wakes up alone in the hotel bed. The sun’s streaming in from the small crack in the curtains, and Harry curses himself for choosing to stay in a room that faces the sunrise. He checks the clock on the nightstand and groans when he realizes it’s only 7:16. He can feel the sinking feeling setting in again, and if there’s one thing Harry Styles is sure of, it’s that he would do anything to stop that feeling right this instant. It’s then that he realizes his hand is already in his pants, and he figures a good wank could at least delay the inevitable. He’s grateful for any delay.

As he gets himself off, he tries to swat away any memories of blue eyes, loud laughs, and soft moans. He does pretty well, actually. His movements become a little more desperate, and for a minute, with his right hand moving faster and faster, Harry thinks he could get better one day. 

And then he breathes out one word as he comes. “Louis.”

And just like that, Harry stops. It’s as if he can’t believe what he just said, and truthfully, he can’t. His heart beats a little harder, his face contorts a bit, and if he was trying to stop the terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach from manifesting, he failed. The next thing he knows, he’s falling back to sleep on a now damp pillow.

 

* * *

 

The next time Harry wakes up it’s 11:03, which is more acceptable in his opinion. He gets out of bed and opens the curtains for some natural light, and his eyes are immediately assaulted by the strong rays of the LA sun. He thinks of all the times he stayed in this city with his band, who felt like family at the time. It was okay that he was so far away from Holmes Chapel because he had people who could make anywhere feel like home.

That is, until the person who feels like home leaves. And then, even Holmes Chapel felt foreign.

Standing half-naked in the window, he remembers the one night the five of them stayed at this exact hotel, before Zayn had left and before they all went their separate ways. They had rented out the Presidential Suite and gotten horribly drunk together, talking shit and laughing for hours while playing FIFA. He especially remembers how happy he was to be nestled in Louis’ lap as the older boy yelled at the TV. “Niall, you shit! You absolute shit! You’re a fucking cheater!” Louis had yelled as Niall only laughed harder. In that moment, Harry had felt warmer than ever, and it wasn’t just because of the alcohol buzzing through his body.

_Speaking of alcohol_ , Harry thinks as he tries to forget what he had just thought of, _I need a drink._

It doesn’t matter that it’s not even noon yet. Nothing matters anymore, at least not to Harry. Snapping out of his reverie, Harry makes a beeline for the stocked fridge and pulls out a chilled bottle of vodka. He grabs a mostly clean glass from the shelf and unscrews the lid of the bottle before filling the cup up, not bothering to add a mixer. _The faster the better._ By noon, Harry is horribly drunk, and it feels nothing like the last time he was in this hotel. 

He stumbles to the bathroom and takes a look at himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot, his short curls are a greasy mess, and he looks as if he would blow away if a strong breeze came through the room. He can’t remember the last time he even showered. Speaking of, he looks over at the shower and decides that if he won’t shower while drunk, he probably won’t shower at all this week because he simply doesn’t have the energy to do so while sober. He sighs loudly, to no one but himself, and turns the knobs until the shower is only slightly uncomfortably warm. He manages to step inside without falling over, which is a feat in itself considering how much vodka is currently in his system, and sits in the shower. He looks down at his hands and realizes he forgot to take his rings off, but he couldn’t care less. Harry leans back against the cold shower wall while the hot water stings his skin, and thinks about what a mess he’s become. Cool Harry Styles is an absolute fucking wreck. _I’ve never felt less cool_ , he thinks, and sits in the shower for what feels like eternity.

 

* * *

 

It’s been exactly one month since Harry and Louis broke up. Exactly one month since he last heard Louis’ voice or received one of his texts. Admittedly, Louis has heard Harry’s voice on multiple occasions since then, unless he deleted all of the drunken voicemails Harry has left before listening. That thought is a little too much for Harry to bear. But nevertheless, it’s been thirty days without the person Harry thought he was going to spend the rest of his life with. 

He remembers the day as if it happened this morning. He had promised Louis that there would be no more PR stunts, no more beards, no more flashy vacations just to get a few pictures of him with his “new fling.” He thought that since One Direction was over, since he was going to release a solo album within the year, since he would have a new PR team, he could keep the promise. He was wrong.

 

* * *

 

“Harry, you _promised!_ No more stunts! I can’t believe a fucking thing you say, can I?” The hurt in Louis’ voice was more than obvious, and it hurt Harry to know he was the cause of it. 

“I thought I could-“

“You thought you could _what_ , Harry? You thought you could just get away with this one last time? You thought I’d be okay with you leaving to go to Hawaii for two weeks with her while I just patiently wait here for you to get back and hope with all I’ve got that you’re not actually fucking her?” 

“Louis no, you know that’s not what I meant! I tried to tell them n-“

“You didn’t try hard enough. You never have. I told you last time that I wouldn’t put myself through this again, I can’t do it Harry.”

Once Harry heard Louis say he can’t do it, it was as if the whole world fell to pieces around him. Hell, it felt like he was crumbling into dirt. And he knew it was his fault. 

“Lou, please. Don’t do this. Don’t leave, I’ll try to talk to them. Please.” By now, Harry’s voice is little more than a whisper. 

“I can’t, Harry. I’m sorry, but I can’t. You can’t change their minds, no matter how much you want to, and I can’t put myself through another PR stunt, no matter how much I want to. It’ll break me- hell, it already has. I’m sorry Harry but I can’t do this.”

And with those words, Louis grabbed his keys off of the kitchen counter and bolted out of the door before Harry could see him tearing up (and before he could see Harry crying and change his mind). Harry shouted after him, throwing open the door Louis had slammed moments ago and running after him as he sped down the street. Harry dropped to his knees in the middle of the road, and then it really felt like everything had crumbled.

 

* * *

 

Harry wonders why some people prefer comfortable silence. He’s grown accustomed to the silence that has surrounded him for weeks now, the only noises coming from the low volume on the television. He can’t help but think that he would much rather hear Louis’ boisterous laugh and constant banter than enjoy this silence. He would rather be annoyed for the rest of his life by the boy he loves ( _loved_ , he corrects to himself), than enjoy comfortable silence. 

The only thing that Harry occasionally finds unnerving about the silence that engulfs his life is the lack of noise coming from his phone. For the first few weeks, his family and the rest of the boys would not stop calling him in an attempt to check in on him. Day by day, though, the number of calls became fewer and fewer until now there’s nothing. _Maybe they really believed me when I said I was alright_ , Harry thinks to himself. _Or maybe they just got tired of calling me with no answer. Maybe they just wanted to stop trying, or maybe they think I’ve stopped trying. Maybe everyone stops trying._

Harry thinks of all the times he’s used that exact phone to leave the numerous drunken voicemails on Louis’ phone. He knows Louis knows he’s not okay. _Louis knows, and Louis doesn’t care._ Harry wishes with everything he has that Louis would call him crying as well, just so he can know he’s not the only one in this much pain. He wants Louis to break too. But Louis never does. He thinks maybe if Louis had said what he needed to say earlier on in their career, when PR stunts could still be negotiated, none of this would have happened and they could be happy. But Louis never said it bothered him until it was too late to fix. Harry sits on the floor and leans his back against the mattress. He looks at his phone, flipping it over and over in his hands, and gets terribly angry at the fact that if his phone could talk, it would probably say that it misses Louis’ constant calls and texts. That thought alone makes Harry throw his phone against the wall. 

 

* * *

 

It’s week six when Harry finally decides that he should replace his phone and stop using his laptop to receive texts. His sister’s been trying to reach him for two days now, and he figures it’s time to give her a proper call, and while he could technically do so from a laptop, he would much rather like to pace while he talks to her. So, he ventures to the closest Apple Store in an oversized sweater and sunglasses. With the weight he’s lost recently, he hopes no one will recognize him.

After successfully avoiding any paparazzi or pictures from fans in the store, he ventures outside and heads for his car. Before he can open the door, though, a voice stops him.

“Harry, mate, that you?”

Harry turns around and feels as if he could throw up on the spot. He hadn’t seen Peter since he had signed to a new record label. Peter, the one PR person who was always on Harry’s side when it came to stunts. Peter, the one person who would go out for drinks with the band after a particularly good week. Peter, who is currently standing in front of Harry wearing Harry’s own t-shirt, the one he let Louis keep after a particularly romantic date a year or so ago, after Louis mistakenly grabbed it instead of his own shirt the next morning and decided he liked it better anyway.

Peter is wearing Harry’s shirt that he’d given to Louis, and Harry prays that Peter didn’t receive it the same way Louis did. He has a feeling his prayer is too late.

Even though it feels as if Harry could collapse at any minute, he knows he should be polite. He greets the man with as much energy as he could muster, which isn’t saying much. “Hey Peter, long time no see mate,” he says with a smile that seems a little too forced and a little too tired. 

“You’re looking good, Styles,” Peter says, which Harry knows is an absolute lie. “What brings you to this part of LA? It’s not your typical area.” Harry hates that Peter knows what his typical area is. He puts on his best acting skills. “New phone,” he chuckles while holding up his purchase. “Accidentally smashed it the other night and I can’t be a proper celebrity if no one can contact me.” Both boys laugh, and one is an act.

“Right, it’s so much harder to be an A-list celeb with all this technology around. It was good to run into you mate, but I’m afraid I’m already a bit late for lunch,” Peter says, and Harry is grateful that this encounter doesn’t have to go on much longer. 

“Right, sorry. I hope you have a good day, it was great running into you man,” he says. And then something takes over Harry, and he can’t control what comes out of his mouth next as the man starts to walk away.

“Hey Peter?” Harry calls out, and Peter turns around in a second. 

“Yeah Styles?”

“Have you talked to Louis recently? Sorry if that’s too much to ask, but…”

Peter stiffens a bit, and if Harry weren’t studying him so intently, it would have gone unnoticed. “Yeah, I have. He’s doing alright.”

Then Peter does the one thing Harry isn’t expecting, and he glances back toward the direction he was walking. Toward where he’s getting lunch with someone. And Harry thinks the world might have stopped spinning, or that all of the oxygen was sucked out of the atmosphere, because he can’t move or breathe. He can see everything he needs to know written on Peter’s face. Louis is in LA, waiting on Peter to meet up with him for lunch. Harry knows it. And he thinks if the ground happened to open up and suck Harry in and burn him alive, he would be okay with that.

“Right, sorry to have asked. Anyway I have to go,” Harry says, and he gets in his car without so much as a goodbye to Peter. He drives to the hotel, and has to pull over on the interstate because he can’t see between the tears and the panic attack he’s having.

 

* * *

 

Harry finally calls Gemma. It’s been two days since the encounter with Peter, and honestly, he doesn’t remember much that happened in the past two days except staying ridiculously drunk and throwing up in the bathroom at least once. Gemma sounds worried sick, and honestly, she has every right to be. He can’t even sound mildly alright on the phone. 

“Harry, please. Come home. Not because you need us or some shit, but because we miss you. God, Harry, I miss you. I haven’t seen my own little brother in months, not even in the tabloids,” Gemma rambles, and Harry feels like a terrible person. He should have visited sooner. Hell, it shouldn’t have even been a visit, he should have _come home._

“Alright, Gem,” he pauses. “Alright. I’ll come home.”

Gemma is almost breathless when she speaks, her voice not much louder than a whisper. “Really? You mean it?”

“I mean it. I’ll book a flight out for this weekend.”

“I miss you, Haz. I really do.”

“I miss you too,” he says, and he really tries not to cry at the thought of leaving his family with such little information about his wellbeing. “I’ve got to pack up my mess of a hotel room if I want to get out of here by the weekend.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll leave you then. I can’t wait to see you, little brother.”

“I can’t wait to see you either,” he says, and then he hangs up the phone. He gets on his laptop and searches for flights to London and books the one on Friday. It’s Tuesday, so he has three days to get his absolute wreck of a room in order. He’s thankful for something to do. 

He remembers something he needed to ask Gemma about her life because he’s been so distant, and goes back to call her, clicking on his favorites. When the screen pulls up, his whole body freezes. He had forgotten that he backed his phone up from the most recent backup, and Louis was still listed as number one on his favorites list. It takes all of his willpower not to tap the name, even though it feels like it’s begging him to do so. He forgets about Gemma and sets his phone down, at a loss for what to do now. 

Harry can’t help but hope that one day Louis would call him, saying he’s sorry as well. God knows how many times Harry’s said his abundance of _I’m sorry’s_ on the other man’s voicemail. Hell, Louis doesn’t even have to apologize. He just needs to hear his voice. He would do anything for Louis to call him, anything. But he never does.

Harry goes to sleep with a wet pillow again.

 

* * *

 

As if it was planned, Harry finally runs out of his outrageous supply of alcohol on Thursday. It’s not as if he was planning on taking many bottles back home, but it did make it easier to pack his luggage without wondering where any handles would go. Fortunately, he’s packed ahead of schedule for once; Harry decides this is a cause for celebration. There’s a small bar down the block from the hotel, and Harry thinks there’s no better idea than getting a drink or two for his last night in LA. 

He walks down to the bar and opens the doors, letting the smell of alcohol and overpriced appetizers wash over him like a wave. He sits at the very end of the bar to avoid any unwanted attention from paps, and he orders three whiskey sours. Just as he’s about to finish the last of the third one, he hears a voice beside him.

“Well, I was gonna order you a new one but I’m afraid I’ll get in trouble for giving alcohol to someone who’s intoxicated.”

Harry looks over, and he sees a small woman sitting next to him. How long she’s been there, he doesn’t know. He does laugh at her comment though, even if it’s just the whiskey acting.

“And what makes you think I’m intoxicated right now?” he says with a chuckle.

“Because I’ve never seen someone down three whiskey sours that quickly and I know how much of a punch those bad boys can pack,” the girl laughs. Harry looks at her, and he can’t deny the fact that she’s very attractive. Her short brown hair and blue eyes seem to make his heart beat faster and he can’t pinpoint exactly why. _Maybe it’s the alcohol._

She sticks out her hand, bracelets clinking together as she does so. “I’m Melanie.” Harry meets her hand with his, turning towards her. “Nice to meet you Melanie, ‘m Harry,” he slightly slurs.

He can tell that she’s pretending not to know who he is, but at this point, he can’t bring himself to care. Instead, he waves over the bartender and orders the two of them a round of shots. And then he proceeds to drink so much that he blacks out.

 

* * *

 

Harry wakes up too early. His head is pounding, his stomach is beyond nauseous, and his bed is entirely too uncomfortable because of the extra body in it - _wait._ Harry looks over, and sure enough, Melanie is asleep next to him. His heart drops, and he scrambles to put on clothes as he slowly remembers the details from last night. He remembers unabashedly proclaiming Melanie’s beauty to the bartender, asking her if she’d like to come back with him, and he especially remembers all the roaming hands and skin on skin. _How could I have done this? How could I betray Louis-,_ he stops. _There’s nothing to betray anymore because we aren’t together._

After he pulls the sweater over his head, Harry takes a look at the stranger sleeping in his bed. It’s obvious now why he took her home. Her hair, her eyes, her frame, it’s all Louis. He closes his eyes in an attempt to shove out that thought, but it’s too late. He has a few hours to kill before he needs to be at the airport, but honestly, the airport sounds more pleasing than being in the hotel room he’s called home for the past seven weeks, especially with the ghost of the love of his life in the bed currently. He moves over to where the girl’s sleeping and decides to wake her up.

“Hey L- hey Melanie,” he whispers, kicking himself for that mistake as he gently shakes her arm. She slowly stretches, and then her eyes fly open. Harry quickly talks before she can. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ve just got to leave, I have a flight soon. I can call you a cab, if you’d like.”

Melanie shakes her head, slightly hungover but still ridiculously pleasant. “Nah that’s okay, thanks though Harry. I live a few blocks down, it’s an easy walk.” She smiles as she looks into his eyes. It hurts Harry to do the same, but he knows he owes it to her. “Anyway, let me get up and get my shoes on. I had a great time with you last night.”

Harry feels guilty for lying, but he quickly gets over it. “I did too. I hope you get home safe.” He kisses her on her cheek at the door, and she walks out without a single glance back. He closes the door, and rests his forehead on it as he lets out a sigh.

 

* * *

 

Holmes Chapel feels less like home ever since he got used to giving a person that title, but it still feels more comfortable than LA. He thought his mum would have a heart attack when she saw how thin he’d gotten, as if he was seconds away from collapse. That night, she cooked him one of the biggest dinners he’d had in years, and as excruciatingly difficult as it was, he ate everything on his plate so as not to worry Anne any more than he already had.

Slowly but surely, he got into a routine. Well, calling it a routine is a stretch considering all he does is listen to the Breakfast Show, feed Dusty, make lunch, and watch TV, but it’s better than the routine of getting drunk and crying, the one he was used to. 

One night, Gemma stays at her boyfriend’s house and Anne and Robin take a weekend trip to Bath. For the first time since he’s been back home, Harry’s alone for the night. He decides to open a bottle of wine and watch a rom-com with Dusty on his lap, and he turns on the TV. Just as he gets invested in the protagonist’s relationship, it hits him.

Before he can forget, he pauses the TV and stumbles around the living room before finding a pen and some paper. He’s only had two glasses of wine, but he’s quite buzzed. With the TV paused and absolute silence from the rest of the house, Harry takes the pen and paper and sits down at the dining table. 

 

* * *

 

Two days later is when the melody comes to him. _Strange,_ he thinks, because the melody always comes before or during the lyrics process when he writes songs. He grabs his guitar from his room and brings it to the dining room. _It only seems fitting that I figure it out where the lyrics were written._ He strums gently, and before he knows it, he has a song. The first song he’s written in months.

Careful not to forget the melody, Harry pulls out his phone and starts a voice recording. He gently strums the guitar as he sings about the past two and a half months, careful not to let his voice get too loud. He saves the recording and renames it, knowing what he wants to do next with it.

Around midnight, once everyone’s asleep and there’s no one available to talk Harry out of his idea, he sits on his bed and stares blankly at his phone. The silence seems a little too loud, as if his bedroom is mimicking the heaviness of the situation. He pulls up the voice memo and types “From the Dining Table” and before he talks himself out of it, he presses send. He turns his phone on silent and tucks it under his pillow as he lays down and rests his head before drifting to sleep.

 

* * *

 

It’s a little past midnight when Louis’ sobs become so violent that he makes himself sick.


End file.
